I have a pretty mundane part time job as a really bad receptionist at my school. Most of the time that entails answering a few phone calls, frowning at excel, and writing. Yesterday was slightly different because I was hurled into the asymmetric, logic-hating world of the art building to take inventory of computers tucked away in a few dozen offices. For a blog named after weird geometry, I hate it in practice; also, a non-euclidean sofa would be horrible for naps. My experience with the art building was an unholy journey down hallways that meet at wrong angles and walls that watched me, and for that I have mad beef with many artists.
I spent most of my time trying to make sense of a map, but that was a lot like trying to read braille with my tongue. I skulked in dim lights for 4 hours begging my maps to make sense, but that was a foolish hope. How could a map make sense when the building it showed was probably drawn by an architect high on weapons-grade LSD and trapped in a cement mixer. No, the building couldn’t resemble any hint of a logical mind because I think it was designed to reflect the people it hosts. I wasn’t puttering through nonsensical halls; I was traversing the weird neural network of every disturbed artist that has filtered through that building. Hanging from the ceiling of almost every hall was an exit sign with an arrow, but then that arrow just pointed to another sign, then that to another, until the halls formed a circle or a pentagram or the polygonal face of some paint-palette god. The signs were there to remind me that there is no escape from art’s utter lunacy. I tried to leave, but only got out when I had given up, when your home had broken what little spiritual stability I had. Art students, why are you like this; why did you put me through such suffering?
And why, and I need a real answer here, why the hell did you all feel the unstoppable compulsion to take the tacks from every bulletin board and make little faces out of them–also, why the fuck do you have so many bulletin boards!
The plastic pupils of dozens of thumbtack faces judged me unworthy while I wandered beneath them. Were they there to watch me, to keep me from doing crime? So many unmoving, unsympathetic eyes that followed me through unreasonable halls. I do not belong among you, artists. I know that now, and your thumbtack golems were there to witness it.
So we got beef, art students. Your house of suffering was an irrational nightmare and your pushpin wall-faces haunt me. In summary, all art students, meet me on the playground at 3 so I can pummel you with a dictionary.